Let's Not Talk About The Weather

The walls of the cave in which we meet are waxy and warm. They leave a thin film on my skin when I brush my fingertips against the surface. Outside the snow dribbles down from the wide mouth of the sky. My back is aching from the journey, as the weight of my pack seemed to double with every mile. I arrive early, so I make drawings in the dirt with my toe while I wait for you; circles and spirals and infinity loops. I think about the time you tried to count my eyelashes, and gave up when you got to thirty-seven. It was snowing that day too.

I hear the crunch of your boots, and your silhouette appears against the indigo night. Your limbs hang heavy and swollen like slabs of meat. The cave's echo turns your breath into thunder. When you speak, it's like a drum reverberating through my gut. It sends ripples along the soft walls, disturbing the settled pools of melted slime.

You reach out to touch my chest. The cave is a hollow heart, expanding and collapsing around us, pulsing in a feverish embrace.